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I did something a few years ago that I was very proud of. I wrote the book that this blog is devoted to. Given that I just ended two sentences in a row with a prepositions, it must be pretty obvious that I’m a little out of practice with this whole “writing thing.”

I created this blog to be a chronicle of the experiences of a first-time novelist. It featured entries about triumphant meetings with book clubs filled with hotties and the sinking feeling one you get when you receive your first (and only...luckily) bad Amazon review. The blog attracted quite a bit of attention and tens of thousands of readers…back in the day. But once one is a few years removed from penning and promoting one’s first novel, writing more blog entries about the “experiences of a first-time novelist” would be kind of like being a college junior and coming back to the high school homecoming dance.

This blog used to get regular updates from me and from readers of my novel, but some of the latest comments from my literary fans include:

Obviously, the dialogue with fans of my work…is sort of non-existent now.

My writing experience is something I talk about when I’m asked about it, an occasion is rarer and rarer. There are no more events (boy, did I milk that “book launch party” thing!). “Novelist” doesn’t appear on my resume. I only have a handful of copies of my book in my home, where five years ago I had scores…boxes…ready to be distributed to book clubs, book stores and book lovers of all types.

So, on this Sunday, six-plus years after my book was published, I didn’t expect to have such a seminal literary experience. I just happened to take my computer to a sports bar today, intent on doing some productive multi-tasking: following my two fantasy football teams, planning a December trip to Argentina, purchasing some MLS tickets, and getting at least fifteen billable minutes in on a consulting project.

Then, in the midst of my work on all of these high value-added and extraordinarily consequential activities, I got a surprise e-mail:

J-

I just finished reading your novel. I found it in the $1 section of a used book store in Manhattan on 45th between 5th and 6th yesterday and I hadn't put I down until now.

I hope this email address is still active because I loved your novel. I love love love it, mostly because the characters became felt like real people. I'm not quite sure if they are in fact real and if everything in this book actually did happened. I hope it did because then maybe I can find out what happened to everybody next.

Thank you for writing book, and I hope everything is well. Including your knee.

-Zoë

Zoe is obviously very out of touch—my injury du jour is not a torn ACL (that is soooooo 2003), but rather a torn Achilles tendon. Who knows? Maybe this injury and surgery can be the starting point of a sequel or a three-quel in same the way a knee surgery spawned ANECDOTAL. I’m more proud of this novel that anything I’ve ever done in my life. Thank you, Zoe, for letting me revisit that experience today.

Now, I just hope I can remember the password to my blog so I can post this shit!